


Pep Talk

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [19]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, POV Brian Kinney, POV Justin Taylor, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1920069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone needs a good pep talk from time to time. As Brian and Justin hit crucial points in their respective careers, they talk each other through the stress and panic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Justin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When crisis strikes at Kinnetik, Justin is summoned to help Brian navigate the stressful situation.

Mornings at my studio are the best. I normally arrive energised and excited, full of ideas and ambition. Today is no exception - I show up overloaded with inspiration, totally ready to be productive. The studio is quiet and lit up with a wash of bright sunlight. I get started, thriving on the peacefulness of the space. But at 9.30 this comes to a screeching halt when, from far across the studio, my phone almost blows up. I'm up to my elbows in paint when it starts ringing; by the time I've rinsed and dried my hands, I've missed six calls from Brian and four from Cynthia. Before I can call either one of them back, a slew of frantic texts come pouring in.

**Honey, call me when you can. Need your help at the office. Love Cyn xoxo**

_Why aren't you picking up?! Get your ass over to Kinnetik right the fuck now._

**Brian asked me to text you again so I'm texting you again. Don't worry, it's not bad news. Just call us, okay? Love Cyn xoxo**

_It IS bad news. It's fucking terrible news. Fucking GET OVER HERE._

**He's overreacting. The situation is more under control than he's willing to admit. But you should get over here - don't take a cab, take the 6. Madison and Park are gridlocked. Love Cyn xoxo**

_9 1 fucking 1, Justin. 911! Where the fuck are you?!!!_

**Sweetie, everything's fine. Ignore the '911'. Just get here ASAP. Love Cyn xoxo**

_If I say 911, I mean 911!_

**911 is overkill. Don't stress, hon. But seriously, call me? Or show up. Please show up. Love Cyn xoxo**

_You have twenty minutes to get here OR ELSE. Don't you fucking dare be late._

As I hurry out of the studio and rush towards the subway, my phone continues to buzz in my pocket. I ignore it and focus on making the next train, which I manage to squeeze into just in time. When I check my phone, there are more texts from the both of them. Cynthia is increasingly zen and is promising me coffee and mudcake on arrival, while Brian's threats are escalating by the second. 

Luckily, I arrive at Kinnetik right on time... or at least, I think I do. Brian and Cynthia are waiting outside the elevators. She smiles at me and says, "You're right on time, hon."

"I said twenty minutes," Brian snarls. "It's been twenty-two and a half."

"What's wrong?"

Apparently I don't say this with enough gravitas, because Brian glares at me then stomps off into his office. Cynthia rolls her eyes. "The art department went out to dinner last night to celebrate Tom's birthday. They got food poisoning."

Brian comes storming back out of his office and yells, "A major potential client is due here in six hours and nothing is finished! We are fucking screwed."

"We're not screwed," Cynthia assures me, smiling serenely. "I have half a dozen temps on the way and we have you. You can help, can't you?"

They both look at me imploringly; Cynthia is pleading with me with her eyes and Brian looks like he's about to tear me limb for limb if I say no. I nod quickly. "Of course I can help. Easy does it."

"I'm so glad you two are so fucking calm," Brian snaps, "Because I think I'm about to have a goddamn heart attack. That's if I haven't had several already!"

Cynthia pats my shoulder. "I'm going to get you your coffee and cake. Meet me in the workroom in ten minutes and I'll brief you. The temps will be here in fifteen to twenty."

Clearly repulsed by how calm and collected she is, Brian marches off into his office. Cynthia sighs. "Can you please-"

"I'll deal with it," I promise her. She smiles gratefully and heads off towards the workroom.

I take a deep breath and follow Brian. I find him circling his desk in a frantic state. He's practically wearing tracks in the carpet, he's pacing back and forth so fast. "Brian-"

"Of all days, it had to be today. Almost all of my employees are at home with their heads in the toilet and-" he inhales sharply, covering his face with his hands. "Fuck! Not today. This can't be happening today."

I approach him cautiously and ask, "What's happening today?"

I've obviously missed some hugely important detail; I have  _never_ seen Brian this stressed. I've been away for a couple of weeks with some friends from PIFA who have a show opening in Boston. They invited me up to see their work and help set up and I only got home late last night. Admittedly, Brian and I didn't exactly make time for conversation. Now I'm kind of wishing we had. 

"I have a meeting," he seethes, "With this massive travel conglomerate. I poached them. Or I'm trying to. I heard they weren't happy with their marketing and so I approached them, and... and this is big. It's fucking huge. They're actually about to say yes, I can feel it, and it's all down to today and this pitch this afternoon and-"

"Brian," I say, grabbing his arm. He stares at me with wild eyes. "Calm down."

Brian rakes his hands through his hair and laughs. "I can't. I fucking can't. This is  _huge._ And the boards aren't ready, the portfolios are barely started, the conference room looks like shit-"  


He's talking so rapidly I'm starting to worry he's going to asphyxiate, and he's  _still_ pacing around me in circles. If this were a cartoon, the section of floor underneath me would have fallen away by now. Yanking at his sleeve, I yell, "Brian! Stop. Okay? Stop."

He lurches to a stop and stares at me, then demands, "Slap me."

"What?!"

"Slap me in the face."

"I am not going to..." I stare at him in disbelief, and with no small amount of incredulity, exclaim, " _Slap you in the face._  Jesus Christ, Brian, what the fuck?"

"You said you wanted me to calm down!"

"I'm not hitting you!" I notice a calculating glint in his eye and warn, "And don't you fucking dare try baiting me. Just calm the fuck down like a regular, sane adult."

Of course, I'm not entirely sure the term 'sane' applies here. Nor 'regular', not in Brian's case, no way. Hell, is 'adult' even appropriate? Maybe in some regards...

He glowers at me ferociously, lending significant credence to my theories of insanity. "How am I supposed to calm down when you're not helping?"

"How is  _slapping you_ supposed to do shit?!"

"Oh, stop being such a pussy! I don't see you coming up with any better ideas." The calculating glint returns with a vengeance. "Which is-"

I really don't want to hear what he's about to say. I already know enough - it will be something that will piss me right off. Brian's good at that. He  _excels_  at that. He knows exactly which buttons to push. I'm sure whatever he's about to say is something incredibly cutting. I'm doubly sure that we'll end up fighting, which will probably progress to fucking angrily on the office floor. As tempting as that might seem, we don't have time for that right now. We need to get to work. So before he can utter another syllable, I put a stop to it.

" _ **Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck** **up,**_ " I bellow, and he freezes. I freeze, too, somewhat shocked by how forcefully that came out. I didn't know I was physically capable of speaking at such high volume. Brian backs into his office chair and sits down, looking surprised, then offended, then livid, then more than a little turned on. I'm not going to lie, it's kind of aroused me as well. Maybe I should feel weird about that, but it's probably to be expected after so many years with Brian, who gets turned on by the sound of his own voice all the damn time.

"Are you listening to me?" I ask, lowering the volume considerably but maintaining the forcefulness. Eyeing me with a very conflicted expression on his face, Brian nods. I drop into his lap and cup his face in my hands. "You're going to be fine. It's all going to be fine. Stop fucking panicking. You are  _Brian Fucking Kinney,_ you can do this."

"My entire team has vanished on the  _one_  day-"

"I'm here. The temps will be here imminently. I'll run them, Cynthia will run me, and you can run Cynthia. Everything will be  _fine._ Alright?"

"Alright," he mutters. Then he narrows his eyes at me. "Where the fuck did you learn to yell like that?"

"Where the fuck do you think?" I shove him lightly. "Are you calm yet?"

"Comparatively speaking, yes. I've dialed it down from  _seriously suicidal_ to  _marginally suicidal._ "

"Oh, what a relief," I drawl, rolling my eyes at him. "You are such a drama queen. Now breathe."

Brian rolls his eyes at me.

" _Breathe,_ asshole."

He huffs, closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply. I run my hands through his hair gently, tidying it. "Everything is going to be okay."

"This account is a huge fucking deal," he murmurs.

"Well, so are you." I jump out of his lap and pull him to his feet. Brian sighs as I smooth his suit and re-fasten his tie. "You are Brian Kinney, CEO extraordinaire. You're the creative genius and Machiavellian mastermind behind what I am sure is an amazing campaign. They are going to love it. Now keep calm, get the fuck back to work, and let me go and handle the art department."

I slap his ass for good measure. Brian grabs a fistful of my shirt and tugs me close. "I'm too stressed to properly contemplate how hot you are right now, but suffice to say I'd better see this Justin Taylor in bed tonight."

I grin at him. "You can count on it."

*

Kinnetik is a ghost town for the rest of the day. The ill-fated birthday dinner has not only knocked out the art department, but most of the rest of the office as well. The few who survived by missing the dinner were sent home by a screaming Brian this morning. Their crime, apparently, was that they didn't hail from creative and were therefore of absolutely no use to him. This leaves me, the temps, Cynthia, and Brian. A pin-drop silence consumes the entire floor for most of the day, interrupted only by the printer whirring occasionally or Cynthia's heels clacking across the tiles in reception. There's practically an echo whenever I give an instruction to the temps. The only other noise is Brian cursing intermittently. Cynthia and I just ignore him, but with every rage-filled outburst, the temps grow paler and paler. I think of reassuring them, but their terror is fuelling their work, and the work needs to get done, so I decide to leave it for now. Just like she has already with the employees booted out this morning, Cynthia will smooth things over with the temps soon enough.

We work constantly, ensuring everything is completed to an almost impossibly high standard. Every so often, Brian emerges from his office to bark orders at Cynthia. She listens to him with a placid expression, then comes and relays them to me calmly. I'm sure tomorrow he'll have hell to pay for talking to her like that, but for now she's letting him get away with it. We get each other through the day by making each other cups of coffee and trading snarky comments about Brian's supernova of a temper tantrum.

Not long after four, Cynthia comes rushing into the workroom, announcing, "He's on his way in. Ready, everyone?"

The temps dart around the room in a panic, organising the materials as requested. I hear the  _click_ of Brian's office door and herd them into a neat line along the wall, where they can stand presentably but well out of the way. Just as I've straightened the last one's tie, Brian comes charging in. All of the temps look like they want to run for their lives. He glares at them one by one, making them quake with fear. Cynthia and I roll our eyes at each other. As Brian comes to a dead halt in front of the first board, the temp closest to him flinches violently.

Brian surveys the boards and the portfolios critically, his ferocity setting the entire room on edge. He strides back and forth between the boards, inspecting every last inch with razor-sharp attention. The temps look petrified. Cynthia looks bored. I pass the time by checking out how insanely hot Brian looks in his new suit.

Finally, he announces, "They're perfect. Everything's perfect."

Even though I didn't really feel all that worried, I suddenly feel woozy with relief. I try not to let it show. The temps aren't so subtle in their collective relief; they start smiling giddily, like a pack of dizzy Cheshire cats. I round on them and instruct them to take everything into the conference room and off they go, marching one by one with Cynthia leading the way. Brian folds his arms across his chest and smiles at me. "I knew there was a reason I loved you so much."

"Just the one?"

He smirks. "I'm sure I could come up with more at a later stage when I have the brain capacity. Right now I can't think of anything but this fucking meeting."

"How long until they arrive?"

Brian glances at his watch and forces a smile, wincing. "Eighteen minutes and thirty-four seconds."

"Any time to spare, Mr. Kinney?"

"That would depend on what I'd be sparing it for, Taylor."

I step closer to him and grab the lapels of his suit, stroking the soft silk gently.

"I wanted to tell you how amazing I think you are. Would that be reason enough to spare a few moments," I pause, then add in a low purr, "Sir?"

Brian arches a brow and contemplates this carefully, then concedes, "I'll allow it."

"You are brilliant," I say, kissing his jawline. "And fantastic, and incredible, and there is nobody else quite as wonderful as you."

He smiles at me tenderly. "And there's another reason: I do adore how you stroke my ego, Sunshine."

"Ego-stroking though it may be, it's also completely true. You're magnificent, Brian Kinney."

"And the work?" He glances in the direction of the conference room. I follow his gaze. Through the glass walls of the conference room, we can see Cynthia authoritatively directing the temps around the room as they assemble everything. I touch Brian's chin and redirect his focus back onto me.

"Stunning," I say emphatically. "Except for one thing."

"What?" He actually looks panicked.

"Too much blue. Haven't you heard that orange is where it's at?"

His eyes flare. As I start to snicker, he wrenches me up against him and growls, "You're unbelievable, you little brat-"

"Brian," Cynthia calls, beckoning him towards the conference room. "Seventeen minutes."

He glances at his watch. "And twenty-three seconds, which I do believe I can spare."

We spend them kissing. Precisely twenty-three seconds later, Brian hightails it into the conference room, a satisfied smile lighting up his face. With one to match, I start cleaning up the workroom.

*

Five minutes before Brian's clients-to-be arrive (I am  _sure_ he's going to win them over, I just know it), Cynthia takes one good look at me and orders me to stay out of sight. It's understandable; everything looks perfect, except for me. Cynthia has spent a considerable amount of time arranging the temps to fill the office, cleverly disguising Kinnetik so it doesn't seem like such a ghost town. She's ordered fresh flowers in glistening vases which sit here, there, and everywhere. Everything looks incredibly polished. The temps are all in smart suits, Cynthia and Brian are in astronomically expensive haute couture, and here I am in my scrappy studio clothes with paint splattered all up my arms and probably through my hair as well. I grab myself another coffee and decide to hide out in Brian's office until the meeting is over.

As afternoon turns into evening and the light outside fades, the meeting drags on, and on, and  _on._  I fill an entire pad of post-its with dirty sketches and hide them around Brian's office. I'd like for him to find the one of me rimming him first, so I stick it to the back of the packet of smokes he keeps in his desk drawer. The others get tucked away in harder-to-find places, where the cleaners won't come across them, and where maybe Brian will continue finding them for months to come. Meanwhile, the sky outside turns hazy gray. The meeting continues. I mess around on his computer and after I've added some noteworthy events to his calendar, I manage to change the theme so everything is coloured in various shades of orange. Then I hit the supplies cupboard and exchange all of his highlighters and post-it pads for orange ones. After indulging in some maniacal laughter, I play catch-up and make all the calls I've been meaning to make for weeks. By the time I've finished chatting with mom, then Molly, then Daph, then Deb, it's pitch-black outside and the meeting is  _still_ going on.

I'm half-asleep, reclining in Brian's fancy desk chair, when Cynthia comes in. With a perfectly blank expression, she says, "Up and at 'em, honey. Brian wants to see you in the conference room."

"Are they still here?"

"They just left," she says, her expression and tone completely neutral. She's not giving anything away - not one little crumb of information. I haul myself up and follow her into the conference room.

Brian is lounging in the seat at the head of the table, at the far end of the room. His expression mirrors Cynthia's - they're obviously set on maintaining this torturous sense of mystery. A sense of nervousness joins my curiosity as I approach him and ask, "How did it go?"

"Fine," he shrugs, neatening the portfolio in front of him and closing it. It's a very good imitation of nonchalance, but I can see it wavering. Brian meets my gaze and adds, his mouth quirking as he tries to hide a smile, "We signed a two-year contract."

The smile he was trying to hide breaks out into a huge grin. I throw myself at him. "That's great!"

"It certainly is," he spins me around, hugging me close. "They  _loved_ the campaign pitch. Loved it."

"Of course they did, it's brilliant." I kiss him soundly, then add, "You're brilliant. Congratulations."

He wraps me up in his arms again, then calls over my shoulder, "Cynthia,  _darling,_ the other _light of my life_ \- you can go now."

"Goodnight boys," she sing-songs. "Kinney, you owe me. Tomorrow, eight AM sharp, right?"

"Right." He kisses the side of my head and explains, "Apparently I have some making up to do. She's insisted that I take her to breakfast."

"That's a nice start. You were in a shitty, shitty mood today."

He scowls. "I'm the boss."

"That's just what Cynthia lets you think," I tease. "She's totally the one in charge around here."

Brian shakes his head at me, smiling. "Dinner?"

"Dinner sounds great."

"Let me grab my stuff," he says. As he heads for his office, I flick through one of the portfolios. The campaign really is excellent. With pride flooding happily through me, I go to meet Brian at the elevators. He kisses me and lets me step inside the elevator first. Thankfully, it's just us on our own.

As he punches the button for the ground floor, he mutters, "I'm not even going to comment on everything in my office being  _orange,_ you little shit."

Struggling to stifle my laughter, I say very sarcastically, "Sorry, Mr. Kinney."

He slaps my ass. I retaliate twice as hard, just as the elevator dings and the doors open into the lobby. Brian's gaze flares with heat. He grabs my hand and tugs me out into the lobby. As we cross it and head for the doors, he leans in very close and murmurs, "After dinner, I think I'm going to need to become _intimately_ acquainted with the Justin Taylor who accosted me in my office this morning." 

I grin at him and squeeze his hand tightly in mine. "It would be my pleasure."

**TBC**


	2. Brian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Justin's first solo show approaches, Brian discovers Justin is struggling with uncertainty.

"The funniest thing happened this morning," I drawl as I enter Justin's studio, "I couldn't remember whether Gus' birthday was on a Tuesday or a Thursday this year, so I checked my calendar and received a  _delightful_ reminder that 'on this historic day, I fucked the love of my life for the first time'."

This has been happening for weeks now, ever since he spent the day 'helping' me at Kinnetik. Apparently Justin's idea of 'helping' includes vandalising my office. I’ve been finding filthy sketches on post-its _everywhere,_ and disturbing, lovesick memos keep popping up on my calendar.Normally when I confront Justin about this, he grins and cackles. Tonight, he doesn’t respond at all. He’s curled up on the couch underneath the window, staring at his laptop vacantly. I stash the food I picked up for dinner in the fridge and approach him cautiously. He doesn’t look good. He doesn’t look good at all.

I wave my hand in front of his blank face. "Earth to Sunshine?"

"Huh?" Justin blinks. "Did you say something about Gus?"

"Only that apparently his birthday coincides with the ‘historic day’ I met and bedded the so-called ‘love of my life’."

Justin stares at me emptily, then says quietly, "Right. That. Sorry."

Usually if he bothers to apologise for these misdeeds, it’s slathered with sarcasm and paired with a delightfully evil grin, not sounding anything like ‘sorry’ at all. This doesn’t sound like ‘sorry’ either, but that’s because it’s hollow and distant. I don’t think he’s actually registering what he’s saying, nor is he listening to me. 

I sit down next to him and peer over his shoulder at his laptop. Justin sighs quietly, glowering at the screen. It’s an email from the curator he’s been working with for the last year, with details for tomorrow night’s show accompanied by photos. Justin snaps the laptop shut and shoves it aside, then sinks his head into his hands. I rest my hand on his back and knead between his shoulder-blades gently. "What's wrong?"

Justin sighs again, long and laboured. His shoulders hunching, he admits, "I'm not ready for this."

“Ready for what?”

He drags his hands down his face and interlocks his fingers, propping his chin on top of them. He angles his head slightly, so I can just barely meet his gaze. “This show. It’s too much. It’s too soon.”

This admission hits me so hard that I really think I might have whiplash. Justin has been on cloud nine since the day he met the curator, Maggie, at the show he took part in last fall with a bunch of other artists. It was all  _very_ charming – boy meets girl, boy and girl adore each other, boy and girl become inseparable, girl stakes her claim on boy and his burgeoning career. Within a matter of days, Justin had accepted her offer to host a solo show of his work at her Chelsea gallery. Since then, he’s worked tirelessly to put together a collection and has seemed ecstatic every step of the way. If he’s not here at the studio or visiting the gallery space, he’s undoubtedly talking about it or thinking about it or thinking about talking about it. This past year, he’s been the happiest I’ve ever seen him. I can’t get enough of it.

Now, though, he looks absolutely miserable. The desolate expression on his face is eerily familiar, and I have to keep myself from thinking about the last time he looked this way. What the fuck happened? It was only this morning that he was bounding off to the studio, practically clicking his heels and singing with every step. Perplexed, I ask him, “Where is this coming from?”

Justin shrugs. I run my hand up and down his back; his eyes fall shut and he leans into my touch. I ease closer and kiss his shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t even know…” he swallows heavily, likely forcing back tears. With a frustrated edge, he huffs, "Forget it. Let's go out."

Justin jumps up off the couch and goes to grab his jacket. He avoids my gaze as he storms around collecting his things. "Let's go do something. What about that club on 42nd? Let's go there.”

"Justin-"

His head snaps up and he stares at me sharply. “I want to go dancing and I want to drink. But not necessarily in that order.”

His words are sharp and infused with warning: _leave this be or else._ Frustration itches at me. How many times has he insisted that we confront things head on? How many times has he told me to stop pulling away and putting up walls? I’m sorely tempted to call him out, but I know all too well where that will lead. Justin needs to pour his energy into something right now, and if I’m not careful, that something is going to be a fucking massive fight. I don’t want that. I won’t let that happen.

He must sense it too; the potential for all of this to deteriorate into one of our awful arguments. I think he's as afraid of that happening as I am. Justin steps closer to me and starts to open his mouth, but he seems at a loss. Finally, and very softly, he says, “Can we please just go?”

I reach out and slide my fingers through his soft hair. He closes his eyes and sighs, more contentedly than before. I take a step, closing the distance between us, and kiss the top of his head. “Okay. Let’s go.”

*

Drinking then dancing, dancing then drinking, drinking while dancing... Justin manages to come up with every possible combination of the two under the sun. From a distance, it might be possible to believe he's okay - that he's completely carefree and having the time of his life. But I am up close and personal enough to know that's not the case. His smiles are strained, his body is filled with tension, and it's obvious he's forcing himself to keep going, keep drinking, keep dancing, as though if he persists he'll eventually stumble upon a cure for what ails him. When he eventually relents and agrees to go home, we only get so far as the kitchen before he's grabbing me and begging me to fuck him. Begging, _really_ begging, and not like he usually does, with heated desire tinging his pleas. Tonight, there's an edge of desperation to it. He says  _fuck me,_ but all I can hear is  _make it all go away._ I try my best. It works at first; he loses himself as I fuck him, but when it's over and we head off to bed, I can see the tension returning. I envelop him in my arms and try to soothe him, running my hands through his hair and kissing him, but Justin still seems as distraught as ever.

The next day, he claims to be fine and says there's nothing to talk about. He puts up barricades to keep me at bay; insisting he's okay, changing the subject every time I broach it, shrugging off any comments I make. Eventually, I tire of trying and decide to let it be.

Mid-morning, at his insistance, I drop him off at the studio. I'm tempted to stay with him and look after him, but everyone will be arriving soon and I've been tasked with welcoming them and keeping them busy. I watch Justin as he approaches the building and punches in the passcode; he looks back at me and tries to smile, and it's eery how little he looks like himself. The memory of his empty smile stays with me all day, clawing at me. I want to go to him, but I'm stuck dealing with everyone else as they swarm our apartment and settle in for the weekend.

Finally, an hour before the show is due to start, I manage to escape. I meet Justin at the gallery and he walks me through it, gesturing tiredly to the paintings. I love every last one. I tell him so but it doesn't seem to do much good. Eventually, I suggest we go and sit down. He nods and leads me into Maggie's office and collapses into her desk chair.

"Time's up," I say. "We need to talk about this."

Justin swivels lazily in the chair and frowns. "Ha. 'Time's up' is pretty apt - we don't have time to talk. In about twenty minutes it's going to start, and then what?"

"And then everyone will get to see your brilliant work." I sit down on the couch across from him. I grab one of the brochures from the side table and read it aloud, " _Justin Taylor is one of New York's most promising young artists. In his first solo show, Taylor explores explosive themes of-"_

"Failure? Fraud? Fucking everything up?" He groans and leaps to his feet. "I can't do this!"

I opt to give him a few minutes to angst and continue reading the brochure in silence. Justin traverses the small office space frantically, pacing back and forth, back and forth, his hands wrung together behind his back. After what must surely be his hundredth lap of the office, I decide I can't take it any more. "Will you stop pacing? You're making me nauseous."

Justin shakes his head rapidly. "Pacing is the only thing keeping me from puking. Or crying. Or jumping through that airvent over there and tunneling to freedom."

I jump up and stand in his path. "Justin."

He looks up at me with big, glassy eyes. I put my hands on his shoulders and say slowly, "Calm the fuck down."

"I can't." He worms out of my grasp and paces his way around me, going in circles. "I'm so fucking nervous I think I'm going to pass out."

"You're not going to pass out."

"No," he laughs, "No, I'm not. I'm going to remain horribly conscious which means I'll have to go out there and deal with all of that  _shit-"_

"All of what shit?” I swivel around to face him, fighting dizziness. “There's a gallery out there full of your work. And soon enough, there'll be a lovely crowd of lovestruck admirers for you to charm. What about that is shit?"

He laughs sourly. "They might be lovestruck admirers, or they might absolutely hate everything and decide I'm not worth crap. They might think I’m totally full of it and utterly talentless and-"

"Hey, that's my partner you're trash-talking. Do you mind?"

Justin falters, then frowns, then continues pacing as fast as his legs will carry him. I search desperately for something to say, something that will calm him. Grasping at straws, I say, “It’s not just poncy art critics out there tonight – everyone flew in this morning and they can't wait to see you. Your mom and Linds have been weeping with pride all day. Daphne's ecstatic. Mikey says Deb has been telling everyone who comes into the diner that they were once served by the famous Justin Taylor. Honeycutt has been arranging some huge, ridiculously lavish party in your honour. Everyone’s insanely excited about this.”

“‘Insanely’ sounds about right,” he mutters. “I’m so fucking pleased everyone is going to be here to watch me fall flat on my face.”

“You are  _not_ going to fall flat on your face,” I stress. As he tries to pace around me for the billionth fucking time, I grab his shoulders and hold him still. "Stop pacing. Stop beating yourself up.  _Talk to me.”_

While I keep a firm grip on his shoulders, his hands come up to grasp tightly at my wrists. Rather than fighting me off, he just holds on, clinging to them as though to life preservers. I squeeze his shoulders and ask, “What are you so afraid of?"

He looks up at me; his face is shadowed and drawn, but his eyes are alive with frantic fear.

"That they'll hate it," he whispers. "That I'll fuck all of this up."

"Fuck all of what up?"

"My big chance," Justin squeezes his eyes shut and winces. "I... I moved here. I moved my entire life here. I made you move here! And now everything is invested in this and if I screw it up... I can't go back to Pittsburgh. I can't go crawling back again, I'd  _die_ of shame. I can’t let everyone see me fail, I can’t deal with their fucking pity."

He sounds like he’s about to burst into tears. I steer him over to the couch in the corner and sit us down. "Listen to me. Are you listening?"

He nods shakily.

"First things first, you didn't make me do anything. I wanted to move here. I wanted to be here with you. I wanted that more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

Justin opens his eyes and stares at me, his gaze turning softer and just a fraction brighter. His suit is rumpled from all of his pacing, so I start tidying it. "Secondly, you're not going to screw anything up. You're certainly not going to have to go crawling back to Pittsburgh. Our life is here now. And you have been working your ass off for this show - you know that! Why the fuck are you second guessing yourself all of a sudden?"

"Because it just hit me how big this is," he whispers. "We're in an actual gallery in fucking Chelsea and in less than ten minutes, the doors are going to open and there will be real live artists and critics and... and  _New Yorkers..._ and practically everyone I know looking at my work. And there's nothing to distract them - no other artists. It's just me. It's all my work out there and I don't know if it's going to be good enough. And if I fuck this up, I don't know what I'll do. I'll never forgive myself for transplanting us and for wasting everyone's time and for wasting all of your money-"

His voice fragments more and more with every bitterly expressed word. I cup his face in my hand. "Stop.  _Stop."_

Justin falls silent, staring at the door with dread so palpable it hurts. I stroke my thumb across his cheek tenderly. "You are brilliant. The work you've been doing is great.”

He shrugs slightly, as though he doesn't believe me. With my hand cupping his cheek, I guide him to look at me. “Do you think I’d lie to you? I wouldn’t be saying any of this unless I meant it.”

“You would tell me, right? If it weren’t good enough?”

“I don’t give praise where it isn’t deserved,” I remind him. “But you’ve earned it in droves, Sunshine.”

Justin smiles. It wavers, but it’s a smile nonetheless. I draw closer to him. "As for 'transplanting' us,  _fuck that._ I love living here. Do you have any goddamn idea how happy you've made me? This is where I'm supposed to be. This is where you're supposed to be. This is where we should be living our lives together. And as for the money-”

He blanches, and starts reciting in a panic, "The tuition, the supplies, the studio, the-"

"The best investment I ever made, without question,” I promise. I press a kiss to his temple. “You deserved all of it. You earned all of it. I will never regret spending a cent of it."

He tries to smile again. “Thank you.”

I glance at my watch; there’s only five minutes left until the doors open. “Are you ready?”

Justin looks at my watch, looks at me, looks at the door, and then visibly caves in on himself. He puts his head in his hands and groans, "No. I can't do this."

“You can do this. You are ready. You’re  _Justin Taylor,”_ I tell him, infusing his name with all of the infinite respect and admiration I feel for him. “Look, I don't know what they're going to think of your work tonight. But that's not what matters. Are you happy with the work you've done?"

Justin frowns. "Well, yeah."

"Are you proud of yourself?"

After a long moment of contemplation, he says decisively, "Yes."

"Then nothing else matters." I pull him close and kiss him. “Fuck what anyone else thinks. You’ve done your best. You've made yourself proud. That's what's important."

Suddenly, there’s a gentle knock at the door. Justin almost jumps out of his skin. The door eases open and Daphne pokes her head in. She grins at us. “I was told I could find the artist back here.”

“Daph!” Justin launches himself at her and they embrace. “Thank god you’re here.”

“Maggie let me in early,” she says, pulling back and holding Justin at arm’s length so she can admire him. “Shit, you look good. And oh my god – the paintings?”

Justin’s eyes go wide. “You saw them?”

“Well,” she frowns, “I did just walk through the gallery. And I prefer not to walk through unfamiliar spaces with my eyes closed."

I snort and Justin flashes a glare my way. Daphne grins at me and continues, "So yes, I saw them. They’re amazing!”

Justin wheels around and regards me accusingly. "Did you tell her to say that?"

"Huh?" Daphne looks bewildered. 

"I'm quite sure Daphne is capable of forming her own opinions," I say, shaking my head at him. I smile at Daphne. "You look ravishing, by the way."

"You too," she says, coming to give me a hug.

I kiss her cheek and drape an arm around her shoulders. “Daphne, tell him again how amazing his paintings are.”

She beams at him. “They’re gorgeous. The one that’s by the entrance? Literally breathtaking. Oh my god, and the one of the dancers – Justin, holy shit. If they weren’t so expensive I’d buy all of them in a heartbeat.”

He looks mortified. “You don’t think they’re overpriced, do you?”

“No!” Daphne and I insist simultaneously.

“You deserve every penny,” I add.

“Absolutely,” Daphne agrees, nodding eagerly. “They’re all magnificent. I’m so proud of you!”

The beginnings of a smile seem to be tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You both mean it?"

"Of course we do," Daphne assures him. "Now stop sulking! It's your night!"

As if on cue, Maggie arrives. She smiles at Justin and says, "Justin, honey, it's time. Come and meet everyone."

"Yes, Justin,  _honey,"_ I tease. Daphne giggles. "Run along."

He grins at us - it's still uneven, but it's getting there - and darts off after Maggie. I turn my attention to Daphne. "It seems my beloved has abandoned me. I had expected to make a grand entrance with something pretty on my arm... feel like stepping in and taking his place?"

She slips her arm around my waist. "It would be my pleasure."

*

As I had predicted, the evening is a huge success. Justin is a huge success. I make a mental note to tell him that I told him so, and remind him that I am  _always_ right. For the timebeing, though, I'm content to let him enjoy the evening without any of my bragging. I watch him from across the room, relieved to see the tension and anxiety vanishing before my eyes. By the evening's end, when the crowds are thinning and the everyone we know has disappeared, Justin looks like himself again. 

Glad to have him back, I go to him and wrap my arms around him from behind. Justin laughs softly and says, "Hi there."

"Hey," I kiss his temple, then turn him around to face me and inspect him curiously. "Let's see... no tar, no feathers. No burns from flaming torches or bleeding wounds from pitchforks. You seem to have escaped unscathed, Sunshine."

Justin beams at me, practically glowing. "Maybe I was over-reacting before. Everyone seems very... receptive."

"And now you're  _under-_ reacting," I yank on his tie and tug him close. "They love your work. They love you. Maybe almost as much as I do."

His smile grows all the more and he whispers, "And that's an awful lot, isn't it?"

I shrug noncommittally and Justin laughs. I silence him with a kiss, then murmur, "Give yourself the credit you deserve. You're amazing."

He blushes and admits quietly, "Maggie says every single piece sold. She wants to talk about working together again, maybe putting together another show for next fall. I've lined up a tonne of commissions. This guy from some magazine wants to interview me..."

He pauses and glances around the gallery. It's late, the crowds are waning, but there are still a decent amount of people here and they all seem to be transfixed on his work. I, on the other hand, can't tear myself away from the smile on his face. Justin's blush grows deeper and he confides softly, "I think this is really going somewhere."

"Of course it is, you little shit. Repeat after me: I am Justin Taylor and I am destined for greatness."

He bites his lip and scrunches his nose. I poke his chest. "Say. It."

"I am Justin Taylor," he repeats, rolling his eyes, but still smiling brilliantly, "And I am destined for greatness."

"Very good," I commend him, "I'm going to continue drilling that into you until you get it."

"Oh, you can drill it into me," Justin says slyly, kissing my neck. "I would  _love_ for you to drill it into me. But first... wanna see what didn't make the show?"

"Sure."

He grabs my hand and leads me down into the storeroom. Justin leads me over to the farthest corner, where there's a set of canvas blocks stacked against the wall. He kneels down and lays them in a grid of three by three, shuffling them about until he seems satisfied. Then he stands up and sinks into my waiting arms. "I wanted to include them, but then Linds and Mel said they were bringing Gus. I thought maybe it was kind of inappropriate."

I can certainly see why. Each canvas depicts a different part of me in... _intimate_ detail. All nine are brought to life with vivid colours; reds and oranges mixed with flesh tones, setting everything on fire. There's my eyes alight with lust; my lips slick, stretched open to release a moan; my hand grasping at bedsheets; my tongue flattened against flesh; my stomach slick with sweat; my inner thigh; my back, captured mid-arch; my neck marred by love-bites; my lips again, with my tongue swirling over my lower lip. They burst with fire and flavour, screaming of lust. 

"Also... they feel really personal," Justin murmurs, drawing my arms tighter around his middle. "That must sound ridiculous considering the entirety of gay Pittsburgh and 75% of gay New York has seen you like this by now, but they feel personal nonetheless."

Truthfully, I'm not sure anyone else has ever seen me like this. There's so much detail here that I don't think anybody else could possibly notice. Justin has had  _years_ to observe all of this, learn it through sight and touch, and commit it to memory. Everyone else I've ever been with has passed by in a blur. These paintings might scream of lust, but it's an intimate lust, not the anonymous lust I've known over and over again with other men. It's a lust that's only ours. 

I stare at the nine canvases intently until my vision starts to swim. No, there's nobody else who knows me like this. The version of me that exists in these paintings is his, and his alone.

"I want these," I blurt out urgently. "How much?"

"This much," he says, and tilts his head back, inviting me in for a kiss. I capture his mouth with mine greedily. 

"That's a very reasonable price," I chuckle, and he joins me in laughing. "Tell me about them."

"When Maggie first talked to me about what I might put together for tonight, she said she loved how passionate my work was. And she suggested that that was what I should explore - _passion in all its incarnations_." Justin smirks. "Or at least, that's what it says in all of those pretentious brochures they were handing out tonight."

"You did good," I murmur in his ear, thinking of all the other pieces upstairs and how they seemed to set the gallery space ablaze. These are even better - the storeroom is quiet and dimly lit, but these paintings have filled the room with brightness and liveliness.

"These were actually the first pieces I created," Justin says softly. "When she said 'passion', it was like word association. All I could think of was you."

"You know what I think?"

He turns around and loops his arms around my neck, offering me a dazzling smile. "What?"

"I think I underpaid," I admit, "By a long shot."

"You should remedy that."

"I really should."

I drag him into my arms and kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, with all the passion I can muster, and then some.

**The End**


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